Shadows Over Westeros
by The Masked Mummer
Summary: A quirk of fate leaves Ezio and his two apprentices stranded in King's Landing the day before Eddard Stark is betrayed and his house guard is slaughtered. Now the Assassins are on a course for conflict with the Great Houses of Westeros. They must survive the ensuing chaos and find a way back to their own world.
1. Prologue

Prologue

Ezio Auditore da Firenze walked slowly down the street of Tuscano. He had thought that he had long since purged the city of Templar influence, but apparently they were back, and with a special weapon. He scrambled up the side of a building, then got his bearings as he looked out over the city. The two assassin apprentices were quick to follow up behind him, and stood overlooking the city as the sun set before them.

"_I'm getting too old for this," _ he thought to himself sullenly. He had promised to put away his hidden blades at Masyaf, a promise he had quickly reneged on. A new set of hidden blades had been waiting for him back home in Italia, and he was needed to help train apprentices like these two. One was Genovia Marcoli, the daughter of a printer and spitting image of a feisty Italian young woman. The other though, that was the trouble. His name was Edmund Norfolk, son of a nobleman in England. He was young, twenty something, with an impressive physique and an attitude that reminded Ezio of someone else at a similar age. His red hair had been a marvel to the local Italian women, and he had his pick of them. However, he was a good deal more responsible than Ezio had been before his father and brothers were killed. Edmund had come to Italia to seek out the Order. He had heard whisperings of the Assassins, and had wanted to join them, to become a Master Assassin and bring all he had learned back to his homeland. Ezio had to admit that the lad showed a significant amount of promise. He had the skills, but he needed discipline.

Ezio wondered if he should really be taking new apprentices into this situation. From what Machiavelli had told him, this particular group of Templars had brought an artifact of Eden with him, one they called "Jacob's Ladder". If this was true, maybe he should have brought more experienced Assassins with him. He began to run across the rooftops, jumping across a gap or scrambling up a chimney occasionally until they reached their destination. The Templars had holed themselves in a shabby area of the warehouse district.

He had Altair's Sword in a sheath at his hip, he had buried Yusuf's Kilij with his friend. He equipped himself with his usual gear: dual hidden blades, sword, hidden gun, throwing knives, an assortment of bombs, crossbow and poison darts. Genovia and Edmund were similarly outfitted, though the girl had a long dagger in place of a sword. Ezio made a hand signal, and they all began to climb down the side of the building. These Templars were terrible at keeping their building secure, they had left a window open! Or it was a trap.

Ezio swung in through the window, and the apprentices followed. He activated his Eagle Vision, but he saw no Templars inside the building. What he did see however, was a large, gold outlined shape in one of the larger rooms. "The building appears empty," he said to the other assassins. They moved through the shadows, drawing towards the artifact. He opened the door. The artifact stood roughly eight feet tall and was covered in canvas. Edmund rushed up from behind Ezio, and pulled the sheet off of it.

The first thing Ezio thought of was to wonder why they called it a ladder. It was a large obelisk like structure, made of the familiar glowing gold-like material of the other Eden artifacts. "What is this?" he asked out loud. He stood musingly, and stroked the obelisk gently. The Ladder flashed, and Ezio felt a _tugging_ sensation in the pit of his stomach. The world around him shifted, and suddenly he and his apprentices stood in the middle of an empty alleyway in a city Ezio didn't recognize. "What the hell?" Edmund asked, confused. Genovia followed the statement with a flurry of rapid fire Italian curses.

Ezio however, felt good. The aches of his age he had been experiencing recently had disappeared. His lungs felt better as well, more open and free. It was as if the Ladder had taken a dozen years off of his back. Now all they had to do was figure out where they were.

And, as if some unknown god had heard Ezio's thoughts, a young man stumbled up to them. "It worked! Oh, Gods it worked! That sorcerer hadn't scammed me after all!" The young man was dressed in gray and white clothing under a jerking of boiled leather studded with steel rivets. "Who are you, and where are we?" Ezio stared at the man. He had short cropped brown hair and brown eyes, and looked completely unremarkable in all respects.

"Of course, where are my manners? Mother didn't raise a boy without manners, that she didn't. She would always tell me, sit up straight, say please, and thank you and m'lord. She was good at that." The young man was plainly very nervous. A thick sheen of sweat covered his forehead. "You are rambling." Ezio said plainly. The young man visibly shook himself. "Of course. Sorry m'lord. I am Hammont Snow, sword sword in the service of House Stark. And you are currently in King's Landing, greatest city in all the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros!"

_What? Did anything he just say make any form of sense? Seven Kingdoms? House Stark? Had Jacob's Ladder sent them to a city to meet a madman? _Edmund took charge. "And what was it that you were blabbering about when we arrived? You said 'It worked'. What worked?" Hammont stared down at his feet. "M'lords, can we take this to a more secure location. What I wish to discuss is of a somewhat _sensitive nature._"

Inside the quiet room of the inn, Hammont was able to relax. He leaned back in the cheap chair, while Genovia sat on the reed mattress and Edmund and Ezio stood. Genovia bore her sharp brown eyes into his own, and Hammont was extremely unsettled. The woman was pretty, in a swarthy southron or braavosi kind of way, but her expression was sharp as broken glass, not to mention the knife he saw at her belt. She and the elder man seemed to be Braavosi, maybe they were some of those Faceless Assassins he had heard Fat Tom talking about. But the third man with the auburn hair had the accent and bearing of a man from Westeros, perhaps from the Reach or the Stormlands. But the elder man, Ezio, had demanded answers so answers he would get.

"I had a dream a week ago. In the dream I saw myself and the other guards of my lord Eddard Stark being torn apart by lions." Ezio stared at him confusedly. "Explain." Hammont nodded, reaching far back into his mind. "Every so often I have dreams about things that will happen in the future. When I was seven years old I dreamed my father being swallowed alive by a living forest. A week later he died in a hunting accident. Since then I've predicted every tragedy that has befallen me or the people I love. Granted, the dreams are only interpretable through hindsight. But this one is pretty clear." Ezio leaned back again. "You saw yourself die, and therefore went for help. The sorcerer you mentioned." Ham nodded his head energetically. "Yes, he told me that if I gave him my month's pay he'd be able to summon aid to save me. And it worked. Here you are!"

The woman opened her mouth for the first time that Ham had seen. She had fine teeth, and a beautiful accent. "We aren't exactly bodyguards Messare Snow. We do have experience killing people, but not keeping people safe." Ham understood. So they were assassins. That was what he'd assumed, though why people would dress up like mummers for such a feat as hired murder, as this lot seemed to have done, made little sense to him. "So this Westeros," the older man began, "Where exactly is it? Do you have a map I could consult?" _Well that's certainly odd. _Even the most degraded of slaves in Ashai knew about the Sunset Lands of Westeros. How could the leader of this group not know? He was here, but he had been transported by a spell. "I can show you one tomorrow, in the Tower of the Hand. That's where I work. Protecting the King's Hand from the wiles of these roguish southron lords."

Hammont bid the foreigners a good night and descended to his own rented room for the night. Ever since he'd had his dream he hadn't been able to sleep in the Tower of the Hand. Hopefully he had been able to prevent that by summoning the folk in white robes.


	2. Hammont I

Hammont I

Ham awoke from a dreamless sleep and began to scratch at himself._ Truly, no lackwit named Flea Bottom. _His sleep was dreamless, and if that kept the majority of his blood inside his veins than he could allow the fleas their pittance. He stretched, pulled on his shirt and jerkin, afterwards belting on his bastard sword._ A bastard sword for a bastard. As fitting as the slum's name._ Hammont didn't often think about his father, or how he had been born. He had been sent to serve in Lord Stark's household directly after his father died in the Wolfswood. But as a bastard he'd been born, and as a bastard he'd die.

_Not bloody soon though, gods be good._ Standing, he strode to the door and proceeded out into the hall. Time to check on his foreigners. They were strange folk, this hooded trio he had called from gods knew where. All of them had no idea where they were. Maybe they were wizards from another age, or maybe they were spirits of the Old Gods given form and flesh by his need. But that was silly. The Old Gods had no power in the South. That didn't change how strange they were. Their accents, even the one belonging to this Edmund of the North Fork (if he had heard his name correctly) sounded strange on his ears. Oh, they spoke the Common Tongue well enough, but that was beside the point.

_And… I am rambling again,_ he realized, shaking his head. He strode up to the door of the room he had rented for them. Raising his hand to knock, he felt a hand on his shoulder. A sharp icy shot of fear coursed through his gut. His hand reached for the hilt of his sword, but another hand touched him gently on his own before it got there. "You need not fear." Hammont turned, sighing and relaxing visibly. He turned and look the older man in the face. It was Ezio, the apparent leader of the trio. While the other two wore white robes and hoods, his were a dark grey. He had a short beard and longish dark hair, gone iron at the temples and flecked throughout the beard. A scar curved across the right side of his lips. Ham glanced down, noticing the sword belted at his hip, with an eagle's head gracing the pommel. _Gods, let him be able to use it well._

"The others are already downstairs. Let's get some food." Hammont followed the older man down into the inn's common room. The other two sat at a table in the corner, feeding on thick black bread. As Ham and Ezio crossed across the room the innkeeper intercepted them. "That's the fourth time you've stayed in my inn without paying, Wolf. Time you paid up. Else take this entourage of yours and leave, and I'll be sending some associates of mine your way to collect it from your corpse." Ezio's eyes narrowed as he stared the balding man down. Hammont put a hand out in front of him.

He handed the man a small pouch of silver stags. "This should cover something. You'll get the rest soon. The innkeeper nodded slightly and tucked the pouch into his belt. The pair of them then sat down at the table with the white hooded others. Edmund and Genovia stared at them silently. Ripping a piece of bread off of the loaf and filling his mouth, he began "I'll take you to meet my lord, Eddard Stark. He'll know what to do with you."

The other three nodded in agreement.


	3. Ezio I

Ezio I

As Ezio listened to young Hammont talk about the situation in this strange city of King's Landing and it's stranger world of Westeros, he couldn't help but think of how similar it was to his own. To hear the young man talk, these _Lannisters _seemed more like the Borgias than any other family he'd ever heard of. _If this Cersei is anything like Lucrezia…_ That was hardly worth thinking about. He watched his apprentices faces as they watched Hammont eat his bread and talk at the same time, telling tales of Lions and Stags and Hawks and Wolves. _None of this matters. These Seven Kingdoms are not our home. We need to find a way back to Italia._

The most viable step on that path seemed to talk to Hammont's Lord Eddard. As a royal advisor he probably had at least some of the information that they needed. As Hammont rose to stand, Ezio said "You must take us to Lord Eddard. He might have information we need." The younger man nodded. "Of course, of course. I'm sure he'd be most grateful if you could help him in exchange." Hammont lead the way out of the shabby inn.

"This area," he said, gesturing vaguely to the slum around him, "is called Flea Bottom. Poorest area of King's Landing." Ezio easily understood the reason for the name, he still itched. Genovia spat. "Reminds me of the Venetian Ghetto, but with less color." They followed Hammont down the roughly cobbled street, taking the sight of the despondent beggars and starved looking urchins. They looked into the open windows of dirty pot shops, watching as workmen in soiled shirts downed bowls of brown. Hammont kept his running commentary. "Nearly all of the cities crimes happen in this area." Ezio took note of how he kept his hand on the pommel of his sword. He gestured to the top of the tallest of the city's three hills, topped with a massive red castle. He pointed directly to one of the castle's towers.

"That, my lord Ezio, is our destination. Atop Visenya's High Hill, the Red Keep, and inside is the Tower of the Hand. That's where Lord Eddard will be." The younger man looked down at his boots sheepishly. "I, uh, should already be there. It's my sworn duty to defend his lordship." Ezio smiled at Hammont's consternation. "Best lead us up the hill then."

They didn't take too long to traverse the mess of streets and alleyways up to the Red Keep. Ezio was wary, and a good portion of his mind nagged at him to get up on top of the buildings rather than travel through the seedy streets. The gate was strong wood, reinforced with steel supports, with a black iron portcullis hanging from the entry way. Two men in mail and gold cloaks stood before the gate. One of them called out to Hammont mockingly, "What do we have here? A lost wolf pup wandering back after a night in the Street of Silk?" The other man jeered. "We know how the _honorable_ lord Eddard feels about such behavior, don't we Martyn? This wolf pup might feel how cold _Ice_ truly is." Hammont bowed his head. "Just let me back through." The first man cocked his head at the Assassins. "Who're they?" Hammont shook his head. "Mummers, come to entertain the Hand." The guard nodded. "Let em through Heb."

The gates swung open slowly and Hammont, Edmund and Genovia strode through while Ezio followed a bit behind. As they stood in the courtyard, he thought he could hear the faint sound of steel on steel. Screams.

The gates closed behind them.

Ezio whirled as the gold cloaked guards both drew their swords. He swore silently, and snapped his arms to his sides, engaging his Hidden Blades. The first man swung his broadsword at Ezio's head and Ezio blocked it easily with his right blade. Lunging forward with his left he took the man in the throat, and he watched as the man's eyes widened in horror. Ezio stepped back and let the dying man fall. The other guard charged forward, and Ezio moved to the side, letting the man take a step past him before stabbing him in between his shoulder blades. The man let out a cry.

"What the hell is going on?" Edmund shouted as he saw the men die. Hammont drew his sword wordlessly and rushed toward the Tower of the Hand. Bodies wearing gray and white littered the entry way, and men in red cloaks bearing bloody swords strode through the Tower's doors. Hammont screamed, taking the first red cloaked man unawares with the blade of his bastard sword. The two handed blow drove the man to his knees, and Genovia followed the blow up with a stab from her hidden blade. His apprentices engaged the other men, sword on sword. Ezio saw Edmund cut a red cloaked man's legs out from under him, then stab him in the chest while the man lay on his back. Genovia was light on her feet, dodging and ducking under the men's blows, striking them with quick stabs of her hidden blade. Hammont took a man's head off with a wide swing, screaming, tears running down his face.

Ezio heard a scream from the upper levels of the tower. A young girl's scream. He barked an order to Edmund. "Edmund! Try to fight your way out of here, I'm going to find that girl. If you can save any of the grey men, do your best." With that, he began to scale the side of the Tower.


	4. Ezio II

Ezio

Ezio climbed the Tower of the Hand as quickly as he possibly could, gripping with his fingertips around any red stone outcropping that he could find purchase on. Below him sounds of steel on steel and screams echoed up on the courtyard. He grit his teeth and pulled himself up on a windowsill. A quick glance inside revealed a scene of slaughter. Two grey clothed men lay on the floor, blood pooling on the tiles. _Requiescat in pace,_ he thought sadly. He estimated that the scream had come from the level above him, so he continued up. Directly above him he heard a clanging, like pots being hit with a heavy log. Men groaned. As he pulled himself up onto a balcony he heard a man say, "The First Sword of Braavos does not run."

He looked on into the room beyond the balcony. A thin, wiry man stood alone surrounded by dead or unconscious men in crimson cloaks and lion crested half helms lying on the floor. A blur of motion disappeared to his left, a small form dashing out of the room. Opposite the wiry bald man stood a much larger man wearing gleaming plate armor and a white cloak. The armored man's drooping, piglike eyes shone through the helm's eye slits, full of hate and malice. The knight swung a greatsword at the bald man, but the bald man was able to dance out of the way; raining down ineffective blows with a wooden training sword. The knight's sword cut the practice sword in two. The bald man dropped the now useless handle.

Ezio didn't have to give much thought as to who was the person he should help in this situation. One was unarmed and unarmored, while the other was so weighed down in burnished plate that he moved with the grace of a gored bull. Ezio pulled himself up and swung over the balcony railing, unsheathing Altair's sword. The sound drew the attention of the armored man. He stared at Ezio, incredulous. "Where in the Seven Hells did you come from?" Ezio smiled. "I'm here to take you there, _bastardo._" Then he attacked.

Ezio's first lunge was a simple testing blow, trying to see the man's skill. The man was slow, and the helm he wore cut down on his field of vision. That he could use. His sword left a small scratch in the man's breastplate. The knight brought his longsword around, and Ezio ducked under the blow. Ezio rapped a quick blow on the knight's elbow, then danced around behind the man and struck at the inside of his knee. Despite how the armor slowed him, it protected him from head to toe. Ezio heard the ring of steel on steel. Looking over, he saw that the bald man had taken up one of the fallen men's swords and was engaging the tall knight as well. The bald man held the longsword uncertainly, as if he was more used to fighting with a different sword.

Ezio backed away from the armored knight, scanning the man from head to toe, looking for openings. _The eyes, but those are so small. Under the arms, yes, that might work._ The bald man swung the sword at the knight, and the knight deflected it easily. Ezio attacked from the left at the same time. He pulled hard on the knight's white cloak, jerking the heavy man backward. As the man's arms raised, Ezio extended his hidden blade and stabbed the man in the armpit. The knight screamed, and hit the floor with such a loud crash Ezio's ears rang.

Ezio knelt next to the man, removing his helm. The man had drooping eyes and a dull red beard. "Who are you? Why are you here, killing these people?" The thing is, Ezio truly didn't know. He'd only arrived in this place yesterday, and had no idea what was going on other than the small tidbits Hammont had been able to tell him. The man coughed welty, blood forming at the corners of his mouth. "Ser… Meryn Trant." He winced, gritting his teeth. "The queen… said… Stark was going to betray the king. Kill the guards, take Stark's daughters. Those were the orders." The man continued to cough. Ezio had punctured his left lung and with his hidden blade. He extended the blade again, and shoved the blade up under the man's chin, killing him instantly. Then he pulled the blade back in, and closed Meryn Trant's eyes.

"_Requiescat in pace."_ Quietly, the man behind him said two words Ezio didn't recognize. "Valar Morghulis." Ezio turned and looked at the man. The man was completely bald on his head, and had a large beak of a nose and dark, knowing eyes. "Thank you for saving my life," he said in a clipped accent. "My name is Syrio Forel, former First Sword to the Sealord of Braavos. I was training Eddard Stark's daughter in the water dance, but I was interrupted." Ezio nodded. "They attacked during your lesson." A grin broke Syrio Forel's tan face. "Just so." He glanced around. "My young charge seems to have followed my advice. If I taught her anything she'll be able to escape this castle easily, but what then. She needs to found, and protected." Ezio glanced about the room. "We won't be able to find her unless we get out of here alive ourselves." Syrio nodded. "Agreed."

They left the room cautiously, wary of any remaining foes. There was silence in the Tower of the Hand, and that disturbed Ezio more than the sounds of combat. The two of them descended two flights of stairs. Still nothing. Ezio chanced to glance out of a window, and saw a group of the men in black ringmail and golden cloaks forming up in the courtyard. "We aren't going to escape that way," he said tiredly. He ran to the other side of the tower, and leaned out of a window. A building lay a story or so down, the kind of jump Ezio had made safely over a thousand times. Syrio swore. Ezio turned to him. "It's the only way, unless you want to cut your way through those guards. Syrio shrugged dully.

Ezio hit the roof of the shorter building lightly, executing a roll. Syrio dropped down after him, lightly enough. They ran across the roof. The short building, a smithy or a stable, lay next to the outer wall of the Red Keep. Ezio scrabbled up the wall as quickly as possible, crawling up onto the walkway normally patrolled by guards. Syrio followed him after only a few seconds. Ezio raised an eyebrow. "How'd you learn to climb like that?" Syrio shook his head. "I was not always a First Sword. The urchin child who stays on the streets of Braavos is a fool. A dead one at that."

They looked off the wall onto King's Landing and the Blackwater Rush below. The Red Keep was surrounded by a moat filled with iron spikes instead of water, except where the river lapped against its bloody stone sides. Ezio leaned over the side of the wall, then shrugged and performed a Leap of Faith.


	5. Edmund I

Edmund

Edmund ducked under a sword swung at his neck, danced to the side and put his sword through the man's eye. "Bloody hell!" he swore again, loudly. He'd been in this place less than a day and people were already trying to kill him! Splashes of blood had stained his otherwise white robes, and a quick glance at Genovia revealed a similar story. Hammont was still roaring away, swinging that big sword of his and seemed to be trying to get himself killed. He'd already taken a wound, a stab in the shoulder.

Edmund threw a throwing knife into the throat of another of the red cloaked men's throats. Hammont was fighting the last of them out here in the courtyard, a tall, burly man in his mail, crimson cloak and lion crested half-helm. Hammont's furious blows drove him back towards Genovia, who finished him with a single thrust of her hidden blade. Hammont lowered his sword, panting furiously.

"What the hell is going on?" Edmund asked the man in a near screaming tone. Hammont shook his head, still panting. Looking closely, Edmund could see that tears were flowing freely from his eyes. Genovia stalked through the doorway to the Tower of the Hand, and saw a scene of butchery. Men dressed like Hammont in grey and white livery of House Stark lay dead, hacked to pieces or stabbed repeatedly. The floor was slick with blood. "It's what I dreamed," Hammont said weakly, wiping the tears from his eyes. "My friends, torn apart by lions."

Edmund took charge. "If there are any still alive that we can help, do so. Otherwise, we need to get out of here before we end up like them." The other two nodded in agreement. What he didn't say didn't need saying. _If you find any more red cloaked men, kill them._ Scaling a set of stairs showed him similar scenes to those in the entryway, but further in he saw that the battle was still raging. Three red cloaked warriors were staring down a lone man in grey and white and boiled leather. The lone man was unarmed, having been disarmed by one of the red cloaks. The red cloaked men were toying with him. "Dance for us, you frozen wolf bastard," said one, pressing his sword against the lone man's cheek. The lone man spit at him.

He came up behind the red cloaks silently, extending his hidden blades and killing two of the guards simultaneously with stabs under the ear. The third, the one with the sword to the Stark guard's cheek, turned to see what had happened. The Stark guardsman slapped the man's sword hand away while he was distracted, and delivered a punch to his unprotected throat. The red cloak dropped to the floor, gasping. The grey and white garbed man's bearded face broke into a grin as he picked up the fallen man's sword and pressed it against his face. "Dance, you Lannister bastard." The man's eyes shone with fear. The killing blow was quick and painless.

The bearded man dressed in the Stark livery turned to Edmund. "Thank you for saving my life. Who are you?" "A friend," Edmund said distractedly as he looked the room over. The man shook his head. "Well, my name is Derral Flint. Have any other of Lord Eddard's men survived?" Edmund shook his head. "I don't know. Hammont Snow is still alive, but that's all I know for certain." When Edmund mentioned Hammont, Derral raised an eyebrow. "The Bastard Prophet's still alive? No matter, we need to see if we can save anyone else."

They went over the floor, looking over the bodies. One man was still gasping, his intestines hanging from his gut. Derral gave him a steel kiss, ending his suffering. Another man had been knocked unconscious and ignored, but woke when they prodded him. They helped lift him to his feet. They rendezvoused with Genovia and Hammont, who were supporting a man with a wounded leg, but had otherwise found no other survivors. Looking out of a window, Edmund saw the courtyard fill with men like those the Mentor had killed in by the gates, in black ringmail and golden cloaks. "Seven Hells," Hammont and Darrel swore at once. "The gate is closed, at any rate," Edmund said, "We need to find our own way out".

A small, childlike voice cleared it's throat. They all turned and saw that it was indeed a child, a scrawny boy with translucent skin, large pale blue eyes and sandy hair. He stood atop a chest, a tapestry behind him. "How in the Hells did you get in here?" Derral swore again in astonishment. The boy leaned down and in a weak, croaking voice, "The same way that's going to get you out of here alive." That shut them all up. The boy gestured with his head at the tapestry. "Follow." He then turned, and disappeared behind the woven piece of artwork. Edmund followed him, pulling the tapestry off the wall. _A secret door,_ he mused. He entered the small tunnel and began to crawl after the boy. Behind him he could hear the scraping of leather on stone as the others followed suit.

The ghostly boy led them through a series of winding and increasingly narrow tunnels. At one point they had to climb down a ladder, all in total darkness, with only the sound of the phantom child's voice to guide him. They kept crawling down down down, in pitch blackness. His eyes adjusted somewhat, but only slightly. They continued to crawl until Edmund heard the sound of stone sliding over stone, and a ragged hole appeared in the tunnel before him. Sunlight shone down, illuminating the boy's pale face and eyes. Edmund was the first through the hole into open sunlight.

Momentarily blinded by the open sunlight, Edmund shaded his eyes to allow them to adjust. They were right next to a rushing river. "The Blackwater Rush," a man's voice he didn't recognize said behind him. Edmund reacted instantly, twisting and extending his hidden blade as he got into a defensive posture. The man was leaning against the red outer wall of the Red Keep. He was dressed in a simple doublet, trousers and a cloak of dark grey wool with a hood pulled over his eyes. The man had a couple of days worth of stubble under his chin. Edmund stared the newcomer down as the rest of his group piled out of the hole in the wall. When the last of them, the man with the injured leg, was through the hole it closed seemingly of it's own accord. Genovia eyed the man in the hooded cloak suspiciously. "Who is this?" The man smiled faintly. "A friend. My master sent me here to greet you." "Who is your master?" Hammont asked. The man's smile deepened.  
"A man with no love of lions. I was sent to collect you. I have a carriage for the wounded, to take you to a safe place." Derral spat. "The Red Keep was safe. Safest castle in the Seven Kingdoms."

The man raised his hands in a calming gesture. "I understand that you aren't liable to trust just anyone about now. But in all faith you don't have all that much of an option." He turned to Derral. "Some of your men are wounded, serjeant. When the City Watch comes looking for you, how are they going to be able to run. You northmen don't know the city well enough to hide from men who've live here all their days." Darrel slumped slightly, acknowledging the validity of the statement. "We don't have options," Edmund agreed tiredly. "And I need answers, about where we are, what is going on. Does your master have the answers we seek?" The man's slight grin broke into a genuine smile. "My master has all of the answers."

Edmund and Genovia helped put Hammont and the man with the wounded leg into the carriage. "You best be going as well, serjeant," the hooded man said to Darrel. "Wouldn't want your fine uniform to get you recognized on the street." Grumbling, the bearded older man agreed. The hooded man closed the carriage door and sent it off down the cobbled street. "We'll follow after a bit," he explained to them.

Suddenly two great splashed erupted from the Blackwater Rush behind them. Edmund whirled to see his Mentor and a slight, bald man swimming to shore. "Mentor!" he shouted, running out to greet him. He helped the sopping, aging man out of the water, grinning like a fool. Genovia rushed down, similarly overjoyed. Ezio smiled back at them. He introduce Edmund and Genovia to Syrio Forel, and Edmund nodded to him respectfully.

After giving Ezio and Syrio time to dry themselves, the hooded man walked over to them. "We really should go to the safehouse now." They all nodded, but Syrio objected. "I left something important in the room I was renting. If I could go and retrieve it first, that would be best." The Mentor agreed to go with him, and so they once again went their separate ways.


	6. Cersei I

Cersei

_"And so he spoke, and so he spoke; that lord of Castamere, but now the rains weep o'er his hall with no one there to hear."  
_Cersei Lannister, Queen Regent of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, smiled as the singer finished the great song of her father's victory. The singer was a pure tenor, and played his high harp with skilled, slender fingers. The music could have come from the throat of a frog and it would have sounded like the melodies of the Maiden to her ears. She had won. Eddard Stark was rotting in the Black Cells, and soon none would dare oppose her rule for fear of her. They would fear her as they feared her father.

Cersei celebrated her victory with a cup of Dornish sour red. It had been Robert's favorite vintage, and this was one of the few instances where she found herself agreeing with her dear, dead lord husband. She raised the golden goblet filled with red wine in a silent toast. _To Robert_, she said silently,_ may there be millions of boars to slay and whores to bed in the Seven Hells. I wouldn't be where I am today without you and your pig-headed idiocy. _Hah, pig-headed. She began to laugh. She was drunk of success nearly as much as the wine.

She watched the singer exit her chambers in Maegor's Holdfast with contented eyes. She should really look into getting a song composed about _her_ victory over those who defied her. _Cornering the Wolf, maybe._ Sighing, she laid back against her comfortable chair. This was such a sweet day. Her eyes closed momentarily.

A rapping on her chamber door awakened her suddenly. "Enter," she said frustratedly. A man dressed in the crimson cloak and lion-crested half helm of a Lannister man-at-arms entered the door cautiously. "My lady, ah.. Your Grace, I bring news from the Tower of the Hand." Cersei smiled at him. "Come, sit. Regale me with the tale of our men's valor against the treacherous wiles of Lord Stark's guardsmen." The man sat across from her nervously. "I bear ill news, Your Grace. Ser Meryn Trant is dead." Her eyes widened in shock, though she tried to keep as much of it from her face as possible. "You will explain," she said calmly, all cheer banished from her voice.

So the guardsman explained. At least, explained as much as he understood. The man's lack drove her to rage. "Ser Meryn was sent to take the wolf girl in hand and you're telling me that her _dancing master_ must have killed him?" The man's neck bent under the wrath of her words."How many men did we loose?" The guardsman looked away. "Eight westermen, and nearly twice as many goldcloaks." Cersei nearly roared at the man. "Is there anything else?"

The guardsman nodded warily. "Some of the guards on the walls saw one of Stark's men enter the Red Keep with three others in hoods. They killed some of our men, then entered the Tower of the Hand, though we didn't see them leave. We searched the Tower with an additional force, but they were gone. Like ghosts, or shadows." Cersei was not amused. "Ghosts and shadows! Do children's stories unman you so?" she turned away. "Go. Tell Janos Slynt that I want the City Watch doubled. We must take Arya Stark in hand, otherwise we loose half of our leverage on Lady Catelyn and her son." The man bowed and left the chamber like he was fleeing from a lion's den.

His talk of shadows though. That could be troubling. Were they bravos that Lord Stark had hired as part of his personal guard, or were they simply a figment of the guards' imaginations since no evidence of them could be found. Either way, a member of the Kingsguard had been killed **INSIDE** the Red Keep. With Meryn Trant dead, there was nothing to stop her from putting a white cloak on the Hound's back. Barristan the Old might object on principal, but the Queen outranked the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He would have to shrug his shoulders and bear it, or else face the fury of Queen Cersei. Actually, Ser Barristan had been a thorn in her side long enough. She'd dismiss him from the Kingsguard, so Jaime could take the position of Lord Commander. But then who would fill the missing hole in the seven?

She decided to save these thoughts for another time, and turned back to her goblet of Dornish Red.


	7. Syrio I

Syrio

The rasp of soft leather on shingles filled Syrio Forel's ears. This particular mode of transportation seemed to be prefered by his savior. Sweat pooled under his shirt and rolled down from his brow. The end of summer it might be, but that didn't stop the sun from showering down waves of heat. Factor in scrambling over rooftops and leaping the gaps between eaves, and that ended in a lot of sweat. Syrio was thankful for his cotton shirt. He didn't understand how Ezio could manage it in his dark grey hooded robes.

He crouched at the edge of a rooftop, looking down onto the street below. The Lion Gate and the city wall lined the area directly ahead of him. A collection of inns and taverns lined the surrounding area. He nodded to Ezio, and signaled that they had arrived at their destination. They climbed down the side of the building they were currently atop and dropped into an abandoned alleyway. Syrio took a second to look his savior over. Truly look with his eyes like he had taught the Stark girl. He saw an aging man, perhaps in his late forties, with dark hair that had gone iron gray in a few places. A set of odd dark robes covered the man's body, a body that Syrio Forel's trained eyes could tell was still taut with functioning muscles. The robes were hooded, and he had a sort of half-cape. The dress was similar to that of a high ranking official in the Braavosi court, actually. Many of the man's traits reminded Syrio of Braavos. But there was something not quite right about him. Aside from that, he found himself trusting the man.

Syrio waved for the older man to follow him out of the alleyway and into the street. The usual crowds filled the streets, and he navigated his way through them to the inn where he had been staying for the last while with the characteristic grace of a Water Dancer. Finding decent lodgings in the morass these westerosi barbarians called a "city" had been difficult, but he had enough coin from Braavos and the pay Lord Stark had given him from his water dancing tutelage to afford a nice room in a safer area. The inns proprietors didn't ask him any questions, a service for which he paid them extra silver. _Don't want the New Sealord catching a whiff of me._ The _Prancing Fool_ was a decent establishment.

He entered the common room, giving a polite nod to the jowly man polishing tankards behind a bar, and made his way to the second story. Ezio followed him, and a few of the folk lagging about the common room, traveling merchants and the like, followed the pair of them with their eyes. No matter. The inn was safer than most for it's lack of prying eyes. Syrio made his way to his own room and opened it with his rented key. He went straight to the bed and pulled a large, sturdy, iron-bound hardwood chest from under it. He unlocked this with another key from around his neck, then lifted the lid. The chest was full of silks and satins, and in the middle of the soft fabrics lay a long, somewhat narrow, delicately carved and engraved wooden box. Syrio lifted it from the chest and opened it. His lady love rested in a bed of soft velvet. He sighed in relief, and then lifted the sword from it's case.

There was a reason that the bodyguard of the Sealord of Braavos was called the First Sword. The name applied to the wielder as much as his instrument, the most beautiful sword Syrio had ever held. He had loved it ever since it was placed in his hands by the old Sealord, and he swore his oaths to all the Gods in the wide world. The sword's hilt was wrapped in silver wire, with a pommel worked to look like the roaring head of the Titain. It had a basket style guard that enclosed the wielder's hand, styled with wave-patterns and the Many-Faces of God. The best part however, was the blade. It was long and thin straight blade, sharpened on one side and coming to a armor-piercing point. The blade was rippled, and it's colors varied from near-white burnished steel to near onyx black. Beautiful, vicious, deadly. Perfectly balanced Valyrian steel. The pride of Braavos, the First Sword of Braavos had been wielded by the First Sword for over a thousand years in defense of the Bastard of Valyria. Until he stole it.

The old Sealord had been poisoned by one who hoped to ascend to his position: one Ferrego Antaryon. The upper-classes of Braavos had expected him to turn the Sword over to the murderer, to give the beautiful creation to Antaryon's pet Qarro Volentin. Syrio had refused, and taken the first ship out of Braavos in the black of night. Ferrego had sent pirates after them to retrieve the blade, and Syrio had killed all of them. He'd landed in Westeros, a land he'd thought would put him out of the Sealord's reach. So far he'd killed three of the bastard's hired knives who still searched for the blade, though new word had said that Antaryon had commissioned master bladesmiths out of Qohor to make a replacement. Still, he had to be as watchful as an owl and silent as a shadow until he knew the coast was clear.

Ezio whistled appreciatively as he looked the sword over. "That's quite a blade." Syrio nodded. "Valyrian steel, the finest spell-forged weapon of the Free Cities." Ezio's scarred lip twisted in a smirk. "Spell forged? What do you mean?" Syrio narrowed his eyes at the older man in his dark hood. Even the dullest urchin boys knew about the properties of the masterwork spell-forged steel of the old Freehold. Lighter, stronger, MUCH sharper. The First Sword punctured the finest breastplates like they were rotting wineskins.

Syrio decided to demonstrate. Seeing a pewter tankard sitting on the room's table, he lifted the blade and cut it in half with a single swing. He smiled as he saw Ezio's widened eyes and shocked expression. "As you said… quite a blade." He found the sword's scabbard and attached it to his belt and walked out of the room.


End file.
